The Language of Flowers
by MissJayne
Summary: Continuation of an Every Day Thought. Gibbs, Jenny and a rose... Jibbs.


_A/N: I guess I owe you guys more Jibbs... I was ordered to continue this drabble months ago and I've only just figured out how to do it. Hope you enjoy! Why do I end up writing birthday fics for myself..._

The Language of Flowers

**Friendship is a flower that blooms through all life's seasons.**

Saturday. A day of rest. A day for taking some personal time. Not quite as good as Sunday, but still a wonderful day.

Gibbs had never been too fond of weekends, mainly because he used to spend them with Shannon and Kelly. Nevertheless, he tried to relax a little, aware that he needed some down time to function well.

For once, he had found his way into the squad room on a Saturday, and it was not due to an unexpected case. Although he would not admit it to anyone, he had an errand to run. He had seen Jenny working late the previous night and knew she would come in today to continue. She was more predictable than she liked to believe and he enjoyed being unpredictable.

He moved quickly up the stairs, wanting to complete his mission before she arrived. He did not intend to be caught red-handed; she would hit the roof. Carefully, he opened the door to her office and crept in. If she had arrived early, he did not want her to know of his presence.

He stared at her desk for a few minutes. There were several piles of paper on its surface, each threatening to topple over. A photograph of her father sat neatly on one side. An empty cup of coffee had been left next to her pen.

Taking a few steps forward, he tossed the cup in the bin before attempting to straighten her desk slightly. He placed the single white rose on her desk, right in the center so that she would not miss it upon her arrival.

He left the Navy Yard with a smile on his face. She was going to spend the whole weekend wondering about his flower.

* * *

The rose taunted her. It sat in a little glass on the left hand side of her desk, mocking her by its presence. She had moved it when she had found it, wanting to allow it to survive.

Now Jenny was wishing that she had never set eyes on it.

She couldn't work out who had left her the rose. Try as she might, no names came to mind. She could not recall any hints from anyone. The only suitors she was aware of had no access to the Navy Yard, which ruled them out.

And it certainly wasn't a gesture from a friend. If the rose had been yellow, she would have seriously suspected Ducky. He was one of the few men who knew that yellow stood for friendship. In fact, she remembered, Ducky knew what each color of a rose stood for.

Red was for love, for passion. Most of the men she had ever dated had simply given her red roses, unaware of the connotations of the others. Her fingers reached out and touched a delicate petal, reminding her of a moment long ago.

Jethro.

Jethro had done this for her. It could only be him. She tried to focus though the haze of memories threatening to engulf her.

Marseilles. A stifling summer evening. He had returned from a coffee run with a white rose, smiling almost shyly as he had handed it over. In the cramped, boiling attic, he had murmured that the delicate flower had reminded him of her – perfect.

She had smiled, biting back the instinctual comment that it was a sweet gesture. Leroy Jethro Gibbs and sweet were two terms she had not suspected she would ever combine in one sentence.

But the man who could scare almost anyone with his glare had a soft center. He found it difficult to express himself with words and so he let his actions speak for themselves. A moonlit walk through the streets of Paris. A field in Serbia where he had picked a flower and tucked it behind her ear. A sunrise in London where he had been watching her more than the horizon. Afterwards, he had told her that she was more beautiful than the start of a new day.

Her phone rang, jarring her back to the present. The smile still on her face, she picked up the receiver. She did not plan to let his gesture go unnoticed.

* * *

Monday. A day of work. A day on which the week began. Not considered to be the best day of the week by most people.

Gibbs was strangely fond of Mondays. They were days for getting things done, however much his team complained. Everyone was well-rested and in theory should be at the top of their game. There was no room for excuses on Mondays.

As he stood in the elevator heading up towards the squad room, he was thankful that no one else was with him. Very few people arrived at the time that he did. The empty elevator allowed him to think.

About Jenny and the flower he had left her. About what she had thought of the gesture. About whether she had worked out it was from him yet. About whether she had realized he had decided to give them another chance.

They deserved one. He had long since forgiven her for leaving him, despite the gaping hole her absence had left inside him. Although he had tried to deny it, he still loved her. The way she looked at him made him suspect that she felt the same way about him.

There was nothing really to lose by tipping his hand. She couldn't prove it was him, however hard she tried. It gave her an opening to do what she liked.

The elevator doors opened and he traversed the short distance to his desk. And paused.

Sitting on the edge of his desk was a coffee cup, identical to the almost empty one in his hand. Taking the final sip, he tossed the old cup into the bin and picked up the new one. Inhaling the aroma, he decided it was made perfectly.

He turned around to view the catwalk above him. Standing where he thought she would be was Jenny, watching over him. His lips curved into a smile.

And so did hers.


End file.
